


Nightmares

by pansypark



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 06:24:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pansypark/pseuds/pansypark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles still has nightmares about that night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> Written back in July, finally getting around to posting it.

Stiles still has nightmares about that night. Sometimes it’s just him and his mom, sitting in the center of the hospital room. His dad off on some case or another, forced to be away from the love of his life and the living proof of it. It’s late and he’s little, tired and worn out from a day of school, of playing with Scott at the park. He’s sitting at foot of her bed, a small stack of picture books near him. He flips through them, pointing out the pictures and reading the lines, anything to get the woman who birthed him to smile.

In these dreams she looks weak. Her long brown hair is limp and lifeless, her cheeks sunken in and hollow. Her once bright, dazzling brown eyes are just a shade of what they used to be. But she still smiles. She smiles for her little boy. It’s broken and it’s cracked and it’s so _weak_ , but she does it anyway. Usually the dream ends like this, the faint light in her eyes slowly fading until nothing is left. Until she’s just laying there, empty. The smaller version of himself starts up then, worried because she isn’t responding. His small hands poke and prod and shake but get no response.

He wakes up before he starts crying.

Then there are the other ones, where it’s full of fear and resentment and confusion. It’s the one where he wasn’t there for her that night, where he was too busy. He’s older in these dreams, almost as if it was current. In these he struggles between Scott and his mother, humans and werewolves. This is the dream where Scott begs him to come with him because he _needs_ him, needs his help to save some poor fool who thinks the bite is a gift.

And he goes. And she dies.

He always, _always_ ends up at the hospital a minute too late; catching the way his father is slumped against the empty bed, the way the doctor’s talk and nurses flitter about, unsure of how to treat the pair. All eyes are on him, though, judging him. _Blaming_ him.

It’s all his fault, they say, he was never there for her.

These are the dreams where he screams and curses and cries but no sound comes out. No one notices. He’s invisible compared to the bustle and he feels like now that she’s gone, so is he. The worst part of it is how his father looks at him. Desperation. Anguish. Confusion. Lost. And there’s hate in those eyes, too. Hate directed at him, at himself, at the world, at the hospital.

He wakes up with a start when those eyes turn to him, boring through his skull and shredding him to pieces because it’s his fault. It’s all his fault.

He struggles to breathe for a few moments, sweat coating him like a thin armor. Tears slip free without his notice and then his body seizes and he crumples into the sheets, sobbing with his face pressed so tightly into the pillow he fears he’ll suffocate himself.

Sometimes, when it’s been an especially long week, he wonders how much longer he could hold himself there before he passes out, before he’s asleep for good. He wonders if the nightmares would stop then.


End file.
